The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“You don’t have a bottle opener.”

“I have teeth,” I replied.

Literally. Figuratively.

He arched a brow, grinning.

“Right on.”

Chris brought me a beer. We danced some more. When “Heads Will Roll” by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs started, Chris shifted behind me and began grinding against my ass. He was hard, and I was over it. Over everything, really. Especially today.

I wasn’t going to see Sam tonight. He wasn’t here. My whole plan was a bust, and it was time to cut my losses and lick my wounds back home, where I could at least drown my sorrows in more alcohol without risking getting raped.

“It’s been fun, Chris. Thanks. Have a good night.” I grabbed my small clutch and turned toward the stairway, but Chris had other ideas. He snatched me by the arm, pulling me back to the busy dance floor, his rancid vodka breath wafting toward my face.

“Not so quick, Pretty Woman. Where’s my thank you for the beer?”

Ah-ha.

He was one of those men that thought buying a girl one drink got them a direct ticket into their panties. I reached into my clutch, plucked a crisp ten-dollar bill and threw it in his direction, smirking as it floated between us, sailing down like a feather all the way to the sticky floor.

“Here. Buy yourself something nice. Maybe the common sense not to sexually harass women.”

I swiveled on my heel again. He snatched my arm again. This time, he yanked me closer, my body slamming against his. My heart began to strum erratically as his fingers dug into my flesh, leaving rings of bruises.

“Nuh uh. I have something else in mind for payment.”

“Then I suggest you rethink it, because I’m not that type of girl.”

“Is that why you’re dressed like a whore?” He raised a challenging brow. “Spare me the speech, Ashley. We both want each other, and it’s going to happen.”

I looked up, trying to shake him off. He tightened his grip on my arm. I opened my mouth to warn him I was going to scream, when out of nowhere, Chris was jerked backward and picked up by the collar of his Ghostbuster costume like a cub.

I took a step back, knocking over another person on the dance floor, letting out a surprised yelp.

Sam Brennan.

The Monster himself was here, a dark horse holding Chris in the air, with a bouncer on either side of him. The college guy flailed, helplessly clutching to the collar of his costume to prevent himself from choking.

He showed up.

“Get rid of him, but not before breaking a few bones,” Sam ordered dryly, dumping Chris on the floor in a pile of limbs and moans, like he was a bag of trash.

“Oh, man,” Chris whined as the two burly guys grabbed each of his arms, yanking him toward the stairway. “Sorry. I didn’t know she was a VIP. C’mon, Brennan. Please!”

“Shut up,” Sam quipped.

“Am I banned from the club?” Chris whined.

Sam frowned at him coldly. “By the time my men finish with you, you’ll be lucky not to piss blood for the rest of your life. Take him out.” He pointed at the door up the stairs, and the bouncers immediately followed his order.

Sam took a step toward me. I took another step back, my knees knocking together in a mixture of fear and desire.

I’d been caught red-handed at his club, dressed like a legendary hooker from the nineties. Lovely. He was definitely going to be serving me my own ass. Maybe even tell my brothers and father about this.

I squeezed my eyes shut, getting ready for a verbal beating.

“Follow me,” he rasped softly.

“I’m sorry! I …”

Wait, what?

Why wasn’t he tossing me out to the street right along with Chris?

I looked around, internally cursing Belle for bailing on me. She was crazy enough to get into a fistfight with Sam. And somehow win.

Sam pressed his hand on the small of my back, ushering me toward the bar then past two bodyguards blocking a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Every cell in my body prickled with alarm. We passed by four doors—two on each side of the corridor—all of them open. The card rooms. Underground betting venues Sam operated, masquerading as Badlands nightclub. Everyone knew Badlands was notorious, but only a select few were privy to the true reason it was famous.

Apparently, only the richest and most respected men in New England could secure a membership to Sam’s little gentleman club—and only if they were vouched for by one of his few trusted contacts.

I caught a glimpse of the rooms. Brown, oaky, and smoky, the men inside clutched cigars between their teeth, drinking expensive scotch, laughing and placing bets.

Silently, we went up the stairs toward a door that obviously led to his office. He opened the black wooden door and closed it behind us, leaning against his desk.

I looked around, blinking away the harshness coming from the fluorescent light, drinking in more details about his life. Nothing about the room screamed money or power. It looked like just any other office of a nightclub owner. Sam wasn’t a flashy man. Meaning, he looked the part when it came to being rich, but he wasn’t desperate to show off his wealth.